Lucky Like That
by Catalinay
Summary: Alex POV angsty future-fic


I thought I saw her yesterday. Last night, through the inky atmosphere  
  
of the small club, I could have sworn I saw her standing in the doorway,  
  
watching me. She was the same, but not. Superficially, she could have been  
  
the same exact girl I spent years dreaming about. But it's the details that  
  
make me think maybe, just maybe, it was really her, that maybe what I've been  
  
waiting years for is finally happening.

Specifically, it was her eyes. Her eyes.... Even from across the room I  
  
could feel the difference in them. They were filled with sadness, regret,  
  
with wishes that life could be what we wanted it to. I looked into them, and  
  
I saw, for the briefest of moments, what could have been.  
  
That's why I think I'm beginning to go insane. I mean, once your dreams  
  
start becoming reality it's all over, right? I've dreamed a thousand times  
  
that she would walk back into my life, that someday I would see her again.  
  
Of course, Liz always used to tell me that the people who are still coherent  
  
enough to think they're going crazy aren't there yet. Like she ever knew  
  
anything about psychology....

I saw her, or at least my mind conjured up some image of her to torment  
  
me with, and I fell apart. Again. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her  
  
what their leaving did to us all. I wanted to hit her, as if physical  
  
violence could even come close to approximating the misery I've endured, that  
  
has become my everyday existence. I want her to suffer. I want all of them  
  
to suffer. I want the four of them to see us, what is left of us, and I want  
  
them to know how hard it's been for us, for me. I want them to know that I  
  
blame them for everything that's happened. I want them to feel guilty, and I  
  
want them to beg for my forgiveness, and I want them to know that that  
  
forgiveness will never come.

I didn't fall apart so that anyone at the club noticed. Not even the  
  
guys in the band, and they're probably the ones who know me best, now, which  
  
isn't saying all that much. No, I've gotten very good at controlling my  
  
breakdowns until I'm alone, safely cocooned in my apartment, hidden under  
  
layers upon layers of blankets, or standing underneath the shower, so that  
  
one tiny innocent girl is the only one who can hear my sobs, no matter how  
  
hard I try to hide them even from her.

Right now, I'm standing in the shower, sobbing so much that I can barely  
  
hear myself think. God damn her, God damn all of them, if only I believed in  
  
God or hell. Maybe I'll start to believe again, if only for the satisfaction  
  
of imagining their eternal torture.

It's been a while since I thought about them. I'd been doing pretty  
  
well, actually. And then she has to show up...I'm sure that was really  
  
her...there's no way I would have imagined her looking like that. The girl in  
  
my mind still looks like she did when we were all sixteen, when I dared to  
  
think she actually loved me. Sixteen, when she left me, when they left all  
  
of us. It had to really be her. It had to be, because I'm fine. I'm fine.  
  
I haven't had those visions, those hallucinations, in years. I won't have  
  
those visions, because I have to be strong. I will not let them control my  
  
life anymore. I'm fine, so it had to really be her.

The visions...well, I hate her for those too. Hate all of them. Hate is a  
  
refreshing emotion, isn't it? You can't sympathize with someone you hate,  
  
can't hope they're doing well, that they're happy.

And for so long, whenever I've thought of her, of them...the only emotion  
  
I've felt has been hate. I sing, and I think of Maria, and of Liz, and of my  
  
baby girl who I'm raising alone, and whose life I'm screwing up just as  
  
surely as they screwed up ours, and I hate. I hate, and I rage, and I throw  
  
things against walls and take comfort in the sounds of shattering glass, and  
  
I think no one would even recognize the me from all those years ago, the  
  
years when I sang with The Whits and humored Maria by playing all of those  
  
nice pop songs.

Maria.... It still hurts to think about her. When Liz...at least then I  
  
had someone to turn to. With Maria, I had no one. She left me all alone.  
  
That's what keeps me hating them. On those days when I don't feel the  
  
burning so strongly, when I think that maybe I might feel some sympathy  
  
towards them, that maybe I have started to forgive them, I think of Liz, and  
  
then of Maria, and the hate flares just as brightly as it ever has.  
  
Liz...well, Liz went first. They took her. They took her to try to get to  
  
Max, and there was nothing Maria or Kyle or I or even Sheriff Valenti could  
  
do to save her, even though we tried our best. When she came back to us, it  
  
was in a canvas bag that reeked of blood and sweat and fear and pain. I wish  
  
Max had been here. I wish that I could hand him that bag, wrapped up in a  
  
pretty box to hide its grisly secrets. I wish I could see him, watch his  
  
reaction as he discovered what they did to her, what his leaving did to her.  
  
I want to watch as he opens that box, watch as he wonders at that bag, watch  
  
as he realizes what the weight of it means. I want him to be haunted by the  
  
images of Liz's body like I am. I want him to know what they did to her, and  
  
know that he could have stopped it if only they weren't all such cowards. I  
  
want him to know that our blood is on his hands....

Maria lasted the longest, but she was never really here once they left,  
  
and especially not after Liz went. She put on a good act, but there was a  
  
glaze over her eyes that exposed her. She never quite paid attention to what  
  
was going on around her, never quite heard anyone talking to her, never quite  
  
cared enough to put any effort into living. His name was always on the tip  
  
of her tongue; it was always him she was thinking about. It got to the point  
  
that she didn't even see me anymore, would look right past me as though he  
  
were standing just beyond me, as though one of her memories had come to life.  
  
I hate him because she didn't even have very many happy memories to retreat  
  
to. She wasted away slowly but surely, and there was nothing I could do to  
  
stop her. How was I supposed to, when I longed for death myself?

I want to take them to the cemetery, to show them Liz and Maria's graves.  
  
I want them to see the marble angels that watch over my girls, and I want  
  
them to know that they never were anything good to any of us, and that we all  
  
would have been better off if they never existed, that even Liz would have  
  
been better off dying in the CrashDown that day.

The only good that came of our lives is her. Our sweet beautiful  
  
innocent angel girl, born of so much pain and fear and ruin.

Maybe it sounds callous, but my daughter is almost nothing more than a  
  
minor concern in my life. I love her; I love her more than I can stand. It  
  
hurts me, hurts me to feel anything other than pain and torment. I love her  
  
so much that I want to protect her from what I am. I only hope that someday  
  
she'll be able to understand what I've done, that she won't be ashamed of me.  
  
I can't help what I am, what I've become. The only thing I can do is try to  
  
protect her from me.

I love my daughter. I love her, but I live for them. I live in hopes  
  
that one day the four of them will finally get up the courage to come back.  
  
I live so that I can tell them what's happened to us, what they've done to  
  
us. Once I finish this, I can stop everything.

I know that was really her at the club last night, I know she saw me, I  
  
know she'll come for me, and then it will be just a little longer until all  
  
of this torment is over.

There's the knock on the door now....

"Well I woke up in mid-afternoon  
  
'Cause that's when it all hurts the most.  
  
I dream I never know anyone at the party  
  
And I'm always the host.  
  
If dreams are like movies then memories are films about ghosts  
  
You can never escape  
  
You can only move south down the coast

I am an idiot  
  
Walking a tightrope of fortune and fame  
  
I am an acrobat  
  
Swinging trapezes through circles of flames  
  
If you've never stared off into the distance  
  
Then your life is a shame  
  
And though I'll never forget your face sometimes I can't remember my name

Hey Mrs. Potter don't cry  
  
Hey Mrs. Potter I know why  
  
But hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me

There's a piece of Maria in every song that I sing  
  
And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings  
  
And there is always one last light to turn out  
  
And one last bell to ring  
  
And the last one out of the circus has to lock up everything  
  
Or the elephants will get out and forget to remember what you said  
  
Oh and the ghosts of the tilt-a-whirl will linger inside of your head  
  
When the Ferris wheel junkies will spin there forever instead  
  
When I see you a blanket of stars covers me in my bed

Hey Mrs. Potter don't go  
  
I said hey Mrs. Potter I don't know  
  
But hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me

All the blue light reflections  
  
They color my mind when I sleep  
  
And the lovesick rejections that accompany the company I keep  
  
All the razor perceptions that cut just a little too deep  
  
Hey I can bleed as well as anyone but I need someone to help me sleep  
  
Ah so I throw my hand into the air  
  
And it swims in the breeze  
  
It's just a brief interruption  
  
Of the swirling dust sparkled jet stream  
  
Well I know I don't know you  
  
And you're probably not what you seem  
  
Ah but I'd sure like to find out  
  
So why don't you climb down off that movie screen

Hey Mrs. Potter don't turn  
  
Hey Mrs. Potter I burn for you  
  
Hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me

When the last king of Hollywood  
  
Shatters his glass on the floor  
  
And orders another will he wonder what he did that for?  
  
'Cause when I know that I have to get out 'cause I have been there before  
  
So I gave up my seat at the bar and I headed for the door  
  
We drove out to the desert just to lie down beneath this bowl of stars  
  
We stand up in the palace like it's the last of the great pioneer town bars  
  
Ah we shout out these songs against the clang of electric guitars  
  
Yeah you can see a million miles tonight but you can't get very far  
  
Ah you can see a million miles tonight but you can't get very far

Hey Mrs. Potter I won't touch  
  
And hey Mrs. Potter it's not much  
  
But hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me  
  
Hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me?  
  
Hey Mrs. Potter won't you talk to me?"  
  
- "Mrs. Potter's Lullabye," Counting Crows


End file.
